Opening Up the Holy Spaces

They are vicious, these black raspberry vines,   Spiked and gangly, and catching me awkwardly they seem almost alive, and with teeth.  Even with decent work gloves, I am scratched and even slightly bleeding before I'm done this pruning.  But strangely enough I find I am quite enjoying myself.

I'm outside.  Ken is too.  We're working together in the Good Friday sunshine, clearing the back yard of winter's garden clutter, making room for spring.  Cutting back these vines is something I've wanted to get at for some time.  So is the wood Ken's splitting.  And just being together, doing house stuff together, that's been a long time coming too.  Just the winter, I guess, and being busy, and getting home and being tired from it.  So this day off, this 'extra Saturday', as Holy and set aside as it is, is providing a space for something holy happening in me.  Just this.  This gift of being fully present in the moment of vine wrestling.  And being with Ken.  In the yard.  Just that.

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He's smiling, barely. Seven weeks old, baby Jayden, my newest grandson is expanding his repertoire.  These are not those little butterfly smiles of newborn renown.  No, these are real.  Fixed gaze, considered response, then defining, open-mouthed, heart-stealing smile.  And wasn't that an attempt at a soft giggle? What this means is that I spend most of Saturday afternoon making a fool of myself.  Anything, for one of those.  This is a plan B Easter dinner, given that the original out-of-town family host very sadly came down with a something-going-around, and so graciously uninvited us.  So we rallied the forces of our freezers and gathered around a table, those of us who live close by.  And this impromptu plan B, baby-laughing afternoon-turned-evening is providing a space for something holy happening in me.  Just this.  This gift of being fully present in the moment of being Gramma.  And being with my children and their chosen ones and their children, my grandchildren.  Around the table.  Just that.

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At first it rains, which, in my perfect-Easter-Sunday scenario is does not do.  But driving to the church delightfully, scandalously early, the dark sky renders flashes of lightening, and that somehow too seems appropriate; big displays of power like that.  I arrive as is my practice to a dark and quiet building, turning on only those lights that I absolutely need, so as not to disturb the hush of the place.  And in that hush He's there, pressing Resurrection Morning power against the hush, as if to break through.  Which He will, in just a bit.  But in this moment, alone by the purple-draped cross I again receive forgiveness, and weep.

And now it's big and loud and we can't hold back, and we sing until are voices are hoarse.  Because there are Cosmic Outcomes to this empty tomb deal!  And everything we say and sing is exclamated!  And together, as a people (my beloveds I realize again with wonder as I stand among them with lifted arms), we recount the ways that nothing will ever be the same because of that One Spectacular Morning when hell was rendered useless.

And something profound and holy is happening again in me.  Just this.  All of this.  This astonishing, breath-snatching gift of hope and new life and victory and amazement, and of being in this place with these people, and being fully present in this moment with them while Resurrected Jesus takes our hearts by the hands and dances us breathless and laughing and free.  Just that.

Just. That.